


If I Could Start Again

by hannahindie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean Winchester - Freeform, Death, Gen, Hurt, Johnny Cash - Freeform, Supernatural - Freeform, song prompt, spn fanfic, supernatural fanfiction - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 14:57:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16956114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannahindie/pseuds/hannahindie
Summary: What if there was an opportunity to go back, to pick up where you left off, when you didn’t think you’d have any more chances? Dean is about to find out that he and Sam don’t know as much about the afterlife as they thought.





	If I Could Start Again

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on the song Hurt by Johnny Cash.

The bar is quiet, although that isn’t unusual. We don’t get many visitors here, and they never stick around for long. I take a deep breath and look at the clock. It says the same thing it has said for as long as I can remember; five ‘til midnight. Time doesn’t really matter here, it’s more of an aesthetic rather than an actual concept. It’s quiet… No one has come in for awhile, and the jukebox sits silently, the records like blackened teeth in their neat rows, waiting for their time.

I wipe down the counter, though it doesn’t really need it. The worn wood shines dully in the muted light from the frosted glass globes hanging just above it. Years of visitors have given it character; the tell tale signs of elbows as they leaned forlornly against it while they told me about their lives, their losses, unsure of where they were or how they got there. I already knew the story. I know everyone’s story that passes through here. But that’s the whole point of this place…for _them_ to figure it out.

My eyes roam across the empty tables, and I feel a little sad. I know I shouldn’t, but I’ve come to think of this place as a second chance for people, a way to start over. If there aren’t any people, there aren’t any second chances. Something about that is fundamentally sad, a bone crushing realization that either no one deserves it or there’s no belief in people anymore. I grab a book from under the counter and settle onto my barstool, anticipating yet another quiet night. 

That is, until I hear the quiet whirring of the jukebox as it comes alive, the arm clicking into place as it swings around and selects a record from the seemingly impossible amount of choices, then drops it softly onto the turntable. The needle scratches for a moment, cracking as it seeks purchase on the vinyl, then finally transitions into a low acoustic intro. My chest aches before the voice even starts, before I see who walks through the door. There’s only one person this song would play for.

_I hurt myself today_  
_To see if I still feel_  
_I focus on the pain_  
_The only thing that’s real_  
_The needle tears a hole_  
_The old familiar sting_  
_Try to kill it all away_  
_But I remember everything_

The door swings open, and footsteps cross the threshold, heavy boots against hardwood. Despite knowing who it is going to be, seeing him is still a shock. There are certain exceptions to the rule, and those exceptions never make it here. They have an entirely different path to take, one that doesn’t involve sitting in a bar and talking about their feelings. I like to think of it as a VIP pass, no waiting, no fuss. Something is… _off_.

_What have I become_  
_My sweetest friend_  
_Everyone I know goes away_  
_In the end_  
_And you could have it all_  
_My empire of dirt_  
_I will let you down_  
_I will make you hurt_

He makes it to the bar and sits down, his arms folded on the counter. He looks at me and raises an eyebrow, “A little heavy for a bar, isn’t it?”

I clear my throat, “What?”

He nods towards the jukebox, “The Man in Black. I’m surprised you have this on vinyl, though.”

I shrug, “It’s better than the Nine Inch Nails version.”

He smiles, though it doesn’t reach his eyes, “Fair enough.” He’s looking at me, but it’s more like through me as he searches the shelf for what he’s looking for. I already know; his is a simple request, a hunter’s request, but he’s getting the good stuff this time. I turn and grab a bottle of whiskey off the shelf above me, the highest shelf we’ve got, and I turn to see him looking at me with what appears to be amusement. “That’s gonna be a little pricey, isn’t it?”

I shake my head, “Nope. It all costs the same.” I forego the ice and tip the bottle directly into the glass, then slide it across the smooth wood. He sips it slowly as the music plays on.

_I wear this crown of thorns_  
_Upon my liar’s chair_  
_Full of broken thoughts_  
_I cannot repair_

He closes his eyes, and for a moment I allow myself to stare at him. I never expected to see him in person, much less this close up, and I find myself drawn to this sad, tired man who has given up seemingly everything. The crinkles in the corners of his eyes are deep, and I wonder what it would look like if he were to laugh. He hasn’t shaved, and I’m tempted to reach out and trace his jawline, curious as to how rough his five o’clock shadow would feel against the soft pads of my fingers. I’m not accustomed to feeling things this strongly. Obviously, I was put here for a reason, my curiosity being a strong contender, but mainly I think it is because I have a strong connection with those that are outcast, different. But this is far more than that. The longer I stare at him, the more I wonder…why is he here? This was never his destiny, so _why_?

_Beneath the stains of time_  
_The feelings disappear_  
_You are someone else_  
_I am still right here_  
  
Slowly, his eyes open. The bright green is startling in the low light. They search mine, his brows knitting together as if he were thinking about something. “Why…how did I get here?”

There it is. The question they always ask, though I’m surprised _he’s_ asking. I thought he’d know. I tilt my head, “What were you doing before?” I avoid directly telling him; he’ll get there, and I imagine he’ll get there faster than most.

“I was with my brother, we were…we were on a job. We got separated, and then…” he trails off, but looks down and runs a palm across his stomach. “Aww, shit.” I smile gently at him, and he looks back up at me. It surprises me to see that he almost looks relieved. “Am I dead?”

“Well, I suppose it depends on your definition of dead. Are we talking _dead_ dead, or Winchester dead?”

“I guess either…both…I don’t know.” He throws back the rest of his whiskey and slides the glass back to me. He isn’t upset, he isn’t trying to barter or make a deal. He just watches me, his expression one of curiosity more than anything.

“You’re not really either…yet. Not permanently, anyway.” I pour another glass and he takes it, but doesn’t immediately drink. He just tilts his head and looks at me questioningly.

“What’s that supposed to mean? What is this place?”

I grab a beer from the cooler and pop the cap, “Consider this a type of…in-between.”

“You mean I’m in the veil?”

“Nah, not quite.” I take a sip of beer and lean against the back counter, “This is the in-between of your life and the veil. It’s not a common practice, but some people are afforded an extra stop. Those who are uncertain, or maybe deserve a second chance. There are many reasons; each person is different.”

He frowns, then takes a sip of his whiskey. He’s silent for a moment as he slowly twirls the glass in his fingers, watching the reflection of the amber liquid that is being cast onto the bar.

“People who deserve a second chance, huh? What about a seventh, eighth chance? Anyone else get those?”

I shrug, “Not usually. But it’s also not up to me. I’m just here to greet and help those that are unaware come to terms with their fate, and for those that are allowed to go back a chance to talk it out.” I take a swig of beer, savoring the earthy flavor.

He smirks, “What if I don’t want to talk it out, huh? What if I just get up and walk out?”

I shrug again, “Dean Winchester not wanting to talk about feelings, color me surprised. As far as I’m concerned, you can walk out that door and not come back. But I think you need to decide if you truly want to go back. Do you?” He is silent, his eyes on his hands, and I suddenly realize why he’s here. “You don’t want to go back…you want to die.” I say it softly, mostly to myself, but he looks up, and I can see the tears trapped in his lashes.

“How do you know who I am, anyway? Are you an angel? What did you do to end up with this gig?” His voice is tight, but he manages to blink away his tears, and his air of carelessness returns.

“I’m not…I’m not an angel.” This is where it gets tricky; no one has ever asked me what I am, not even the hunters. I guess they’re always so worried about themselves and their fate, my presence is just a side note that gets them on their way.

“Then what are you?” he asks quietly, his eyes on my mouth as I take another swallow of beer and lick the stray droplets from my bottom lip. I can’t say anyone has ever looked at me like this, either.

“I’m a reaper.” And there it is, out in the open. I brace myself for his reaction. I know his past with reapers hasn’t always been pleasant, and I’m assuming meeting yet another one under the guise of the friendly, neighborhood bartender is not high on the list either.

He just snorts in surprise and drinks the rest of his whiskey, “A reaper? You think you’ve seen it all, then you die and end up at Cheers with a reaper. Where’s Diane?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” I’m feeling a little ballsy now. The great Dean Winchester is more personable than I’ve always been led to believe. I walk around the end of the bar and hop up to sit on the counter next to him.

He looks at me with an eyebrow raised, “You still didn’t say how you got stuck with a job like this.”

I lean back on my hands and cross my legs, “No other reaper wants to do it. They think what’s dead should stay dead. They think it’s a waste of time.”

“Don’t you?”

“No, I don’t. Humans are…they’re amazing. They’re full of faults, and conflict, but they keep trying. They keep loving and caring and protecting, and they try to be the best self they can. I’ve spoken to so many people who question that about themselves despite the good they’ve done. They question if they deserve to go back, or if they’d be a burden to whoever they’re going back to. There’s always the handful that beg to be sent back, but the behavior is usually the same.” I turn sideways and cross my legs under me so that I can look at him straight on. “But then there’s you.”

He looks up at me then, the curiosity replaced with something else, “What about me?”

I sigh, “Do I really need to point it out?” He continues to look at me silently, which doesn’t surprise me. “You aren’t questioning it. You aren’t torn. You truly believe that you don’t deserve another chance and that you’re more of a burden than anything else. You think the world is better off without you, that Sam will be better without you.” I break my own rule and reach out to lay my hand over his.

He looks down at where our hands are and shakes his head, “How do you know that? You just met me.”

I smile sadly, “Because you’re Dean Winchester. It might be the first time you’ve been _here_ , and I might not be high up on the list of reapers, but I hear things, I observe things. I can _feel_ it.” I squeeze his hand and he looks up at me, and the desperation and sadness in his eyes is almost too much for even me to handle. How does one person hold that much inside and not implode?

“So, this is where you have a choice. You can stay here, make the decision to move on. You have that option. If you do decide to take that route, you’ll leave behind a legacy, legends of the man who saved the world. Your brother will be lost without you, your friends will mourn…but life will go on. If you go back, you’ll keep the world safe. And I know that isn’t fair, but good things will happen for you too. You’ll be with Sam, and Castiel…you’ll be with your family. I can’t choose for you, I can’t push you towards a specific end…well, I’m not _supposed_ to. But Dean…there’s a reason you ended up here. No one comes here when the decision is already made. If anyone knows that, it would be you. So what will it be?”

“I don’t…I don’t know. I’m just so tired. I’m tired of fighting, tired of letting people down…I’m tired of losing everyone. Sam needs to learn to live without me…we’re just crutches to each other. He’s gotta learn to survive on his own.”

I nod, “Fair enough. But are those things reason enough to give up?”

Dean sighs, “No, they aren’t.” He stands, and I reluctantly pull my hand back from his and turn so that my legs are dangling over the edge of the bar. “Thanks for the whiskey…” he trails off, and I realize I never told him my name.

“Y/N. It’s Y/N.”

He smiles, then leans in and brushes his lips against the corner of my mouth. “Thanks, Y/N. Maybe I’ll see you around sometime.”

I laugh quietly, “I hope not, Winchester. I don’t want to have this conversation again.” He chuckles and gives a small wave as he walks towards the door. He disappears through it as the jukebox fades out, and I wonder if I’ll ever see him again.

_If I could start again_  
_A million miles away_  
_I would keep myself_  
_I would find a way_


End file.
